


burn/chernobyl

by orphan_account



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, F/M, Heavy Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, anyway someone give robbe a hug asap, like a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-01-29 05:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21405316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: in which we see robbe alone after the halloween prank / in which we see robbe alone after his phone call with his dadtw: internalized homophobia, homophobic violence, anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation
Relationships: Robbe IJzermans/Noor Bauwens, Robbe Ijzermans/Sander Driesen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 86





	1. burn

Aaron jumps out of the freezer, and Robbe’s heart seems to explode and drift down to his feet in a pile of smoldering ashes. Flames linger, flicker at his fingertips as his hands shake, recoil. He hears his friends laughing, sees them pointing at him. Tears spring into his eyes as suddenly as a boiling summer storm. 

He yells something at them, something sharp yet fragile. He’s breaking yet slashing at the air. He doesn’t hear what he says, but it comes out in a cloud, a fog. Robbe can’t tell if it’s just the chill of autumn or the fire that’s licking at his throat starting to escape. A sob rips out of his chest, cracking through his ribs and sending a shock all through his body.

He turns on his heel, his mind still reeling even though his feet are guiding him down a straight course to somewhere far, far away from here. He throws open the front door of the house, the doorknob so cold it burns. He slams it behind him quickly, and as if on cue, tears roll down his cheeks in swift, salty rivers.

Robbe swears he feels strong, burning hands on his shoulders pushing him to the floor. He’s brought to his knees, the little fires at his fingers spreading up to his arm, then back down across his chest and down to his feet. He’s shivering like he’s cold, but everything inside of him is _burning_. Desperation was the kindling, shame the gasoline, fear the burning match. He was on _fire_.

In the back of his mind, he sees his mother with a stare empty and as glassy as ice, his father with his cold eyes and cold voice, Noor with her snowy skin and cool, smooth voice. He sees his friends, or rather their backs, facing away from him. He sees Jens, with a cold, skeptical look on his face, his brows furrowed. He sees Sander, with his white hair and icy blue eyes. 

He tears the thought out of his head, ending the war of fire and ice raging there. He realizes as he looks down at his hand that he’s pulled out a small fistful of his hair.

He wants to scream but he can’t. Everyone is outside, gathered around the campfire. Where it’s warm like an oven or the sun on a clear, spring day. Of course they would prefer that over the inferno that seems to haunt Robbe every day of his life.

It’s no wonder then that his friends are excluding him, filming vlogs without him, leaving him in the dust once a hot girl walks by. Maybe it’s not all in his head. He keeps snapping at them, letting the heat burning inside of him radiate from him like an eye on a stove. Maybe they push him away because he’s burning them, hurting them.

But that’s not what he wanted to do. He never wanted to hurt them. He never wanted to hurt anybody. But he is. He’s hurting Noor, too, leading her on and kissing her until his lips turned blue and knowing it meant everything to her and nothing to him. He’s hurting everyone around him. He’s burning, burning, _burning_.

But how could he face this alone? This fire, this _shame_? How could he let himself burn to death and not even bother trying to save himself? Because he’s hurting people. He’s slowly losing everyone he loves, and the love that he feels for them is left to burn alone in his chest, in his fingers and toes, in his belly, in his head, until it flickers and sizzles out. Until, maybe, it kills him. Maybe that’s it. It burns because he loves too much. And maybe he’s so afraid of losing it he lets it grow until it’s out of his control.

But there’s a love, one no more than a flame burning on the wick of a candle, burning deep, deep within his heart. One that he would rather die than let the world see. He’s afraid of it growing. It’s the one fire within him that he wants to extinguish, to stomp out until it’s reduced to cold, white ashes.

Robbe swipes away at his tears, trying to breathe, trying to stop thinking. But he can’t. He can’t breathe. He can’t stop thinking. He can’t _stop_.

He closes his eyes, feeling panic, shame, anger crash over him like waves. He can smell the smoke from the campfire, thick and dark and bitter. He can hear everyone talking, laughing, high and sweet like a bell. He can taste tears, Noor’s lipstick, the ocean air. He feels the wood floor beneath his hands. He opens his eyes, tracing the grain. The floor is smooth, cool, abrasive. It seems to sew his fraying nerves back together as the smallest splinters graze at his fingertips.

He somehow found the strength to get back on his feet, trembling and shaking all the while like a coward, a liar.

_I am a coward_, he thinks bitterly, resigned. _I am a liar._

He curls his hand into a fist, resisting the urge to punch anything within his reach. But he _wants_ to. He wants to punch the wall, the mirror in the bathroom he can see out of the corner of his eye, the floor, himself, _anything_. _He wants to._

He covers his fist with his other hand, biting his lip until he tastes blood.

_I want…_ his heart whispers from within his chest, hoarse and unfamiliar. _All I’ve ever done is _want_._

Robbe hangs his head, an emptiness flooding his chest where his heart was. He has only ever wanted. He’s only ever sent a wish to a shooting star, or a four-leaf clover. He’s only ever stared at someone he knows he shouldn’t be staring at, someone he shouldn’t want. He’s only ever listened quietly while his parents fought in the other room, wishing he didn’t have to hear his poor, sweet mama cry all the time. But wants are something you tuck away somewhere and keep secret. Wants are to be kept in a box under lock and key. Wants are selfish. Wants hurt people. If wants are distanced from his heart, distanced from the thing meant to nurture and love them, he won’t be disappointed if they escape his mind, his grasp. He won’t search for them in the wind, or the clouds, or the reflections in clear pools of water.

_Wanting feels like burning, too,_ Robbe thinks. _Secrets burn to keep themselves from getting lost in the dark they’re forced into. Secrets burn, want burns, the thought of Sander burns, his skin against mine burns, the fire inside me burns, and everything, everything _burns_._

But burns don’t heal until you feel them. If you don’t feel them, how do you know they’re there? How do you need to take the pain away if you never feel it in the first place? You can’t ignore them if they make your skin melt, your blood boil, or when they burn so deeply that you can’t quite feel them anymore.

_I won’t feel it anymore…_

Maybe if he lets it consume him completely, he won’t have to feel like this anymore. That his heart has been beating for the wrong reasons, that it might not even be his own heart, but someone else’s. Someone else’s heart was sewn into his chest and it’s steering him somewhere he can never return from. He’s completely lost control, abandoned by everything he knew he could rely on before. And he can’t get over the _burn_. He wants everything to _end_. All the pain, the shame, the fear. He wants it _gone_.

He holds his sleeve to his mouth, biting down on the fabric to keep his screams from bursting out of his throat. Only whimpers escaped; desperate, pathetic whimpers. He hugs his knees to his chest as he crumbles to the floor, keeping all the flames inside, close to his chest.

Suddenly, the door opens. A figure stands there, ringed with the orange glow of the campfire. A shadow burning.

“Robbe?” Noor’s voice crackles, concerned.

Robbe feels himself stiffen, his breath getting caught in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, sitting in front of him. She brushes his hair out of his eyes, lifts his chin so he isn’t looking away from her. “Did something happen?”

He shrugs, shaking his head. “The boys played a prank on me. It was dumb. I don’t know why I’m so frazzled.”

Noor’s hand reaches for his face. Her skin is cold, spreading across his skin like needles. “It’s okay. Just breathe for a second. I’m sure they were just trying to have fun.”

Robbe nods, unconvinced. Of course she doesn’t see how strained his friendship with them has been. He musters a smile and forces out a lie. “I feel better now that you’re here.”

Noor smiles, toothy and sweet. She pulls him close, kissing him softly. Another small piece of Robbe is chipped off and reduced to a speck of dust on the wooden floor.

Noor is cold. Her smile is like sunshine and her eyes are like fresh coffee but Robbe shivers beneath her touch, shudders when she calls his name. How could fire and ice ever love each other? Fire melts ice. But ice becomes water and water extinguishes fire. They’ll only hurt each other in the end. Robbe knows that. He knows that more than anything right now. It’s just a matter of who gets hurt the most.

Robbe kisses Noor, hoping it would make the thoughts go away. But they still linger.

Robbe doesn’t want Noor. If he doesn’t want her, he can’t hurt her. But she _wants_ him, and that makes him _want_ to want her. He’s wanting again. He’s growing selfish again. He can’t hurt anyone else. Not again.

Luckily, Noor pulls away before Robbe could. She offers him another warm smile. “Better?”

Robbe manages a nod.

“Are you ready to come back outside?”

Against his better judgment, Robbe nods again.

She holds out a cold hand, and Robbe takes it. She leads him outside, where the air is thin and brittle and sharp. They sit by the fire, Noor with her head resting on Robbe’s shoulder and tears still lingering in his eyes.

He looks up at the sky and sighs, the cloud of his breath covering the stars like a smokescreen. The fog fades, and the stars don’t seem to shine as brightly anymore. It makes Robbe ache.

He feels Noor nuzzle her face against his neck, leaving kisses here and there. The ache deepens, widens and darkens like a chasm, an abyss.

Robbe thinks, _I can still feel the burn…_


	2. chernobyl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i posted this forever ago on my tumblr but forgot to post it on here alsdjfjg anyway here you go i hope you enjoy it

Robbe ends the call with his papa, and his burnt, scored heart somehow shrinks more than it already has. That’s what it feels like: withering, draining, like a flower wilting. Its roots curl in on themselves, its pedals lose their color, its stem bends and breaks. Robbe thinks, _he feels like_, he’s dying. Dying without Sander there by his side, dying because he should’ve noticed Sander’s behavior sooner, dying because he had every opportunity to help Sander but he didn’t, dying because Sander is crashing—_has_ crashed—because he pushed him over the edge. 

_I’m holding you,_ Sander’s voice echoes in Robbe’s mind, distant and soft. _And I’m never letting you go._

The tears start to spill over, and Robbe can’t stop them. He doesn’t have the strength to hold them back anymore. He’s alone, heartbroken, _exhausted_.

_I let him go._

Sander, with his soft, wild eyes and his crooked, kind smile. Sander’s strong, gentle hands that sculpt and draw and paint and touch and love. Sander and his Bowie playlist and his bleached hair and leather jackets and combat boots. Sander’s erratic, loving heart. His sharp, quiet tongue. His out of control thoughts and his reckless yet beautiful spontaneity. His jokes and his teasing and the way he leans in for a kiss then pulls away at the last second, smirking. Sander, with all his chaos and beauty, danger and safety, silence and noise, collisions and space.

_I let him go._

Sander and his desperate, hollow breathing. Sander and his trembling hands that held his heavy head. Sander with his tongue tied in a knot. Sander and his questions as aimless as him as they searched every possible place for answers. Sander and his small, sad, wistful smiles. Sander kissing Robbe like it was the last thing he would ever do. Sander fiddling with Robbe’s necklace, his fingers faltering and lingering as they brush against his bare skin. Sander with his desperation, wanting, spiralling, _torture_, restlessness, panic. 

_I let him go… How could I have let him go?_

He remembers that night, when he looks around the corner and sees flashing lights. He remembers his heart stopping, his breath hitching. He remembers seeing Britt run towards him, her voice cold and sharp. He remembers yelling Sander’s name as he watched the paramedics lay him on a stretcher. He remembers Sander’s eyes being closed. He remembers Sander barely even moving. 

_He’s ill. Sander is bipolar, okay? The last time he was manic he memorized all of Bowie’s lyrics. And now you’ve dragged him into a new mania._

He remembers hearing the ambulance doors shut. He remembers his mind scanning every moment he ever had with Sander, picking out every single warning sign. He remembers feeling the puzzle pieces suddenly come together in his mind. He remembers tears filling his eyes, but he still had some strength to hold them back, then.

He remembers somehow getting home in the cold, in the dark. He remembers staring at his computer the rest of the night, Googling bipolar disorder and reading everything he could. He remembers his mind, his vision getting blurry. He remembers reading but not understanding, almost not _wanting_ to understand. He remembers Britt’s words playing over and over again.

_He’s not in love with you._

Sander gazing at him like he was a supernova, like he was the sun itself. Sander telling Robbe all about his favorite things, his voice eager and filled with joy. Sander letting Robbe talk, too, and always listening. Sander taking their picture together. Sander trying to push Robbe out of the way when that guy jumped him. Sander mumbling Robbe’s name as they lied on the cold, cold pavement. Sander buying Robbe fresh croissants, Sander putting out Robbe’s shoe for him for Sinterklaas, Sander reserving a hotel suite for them, Sander _loving_ Robbe, loving him until it took his breath away.

_He’s not in love with you._

Sander in that white shirt and white makeup and the fake blood. Sander kissing Britt but with his eyes wandering towards Robbe. Sander in another white shirt, bathed in hazes of blue and green and purple, like the bruises still blooming at Robbe’s sides. Sander kissing Britt but his eyes stay closed. Sander _loving_ her. The way Robbe wanted nothing more than to stop existing. The way he wanted to leave and never be seen again. The way everything was _bursting_ out of him. The way he had to scream, pull his hair out, bite back all his tears. The inky, black water. The _cold_. He watched his breath crystallize into star dust in the night air, and he wondered how he could ever truly _breathe_ again. He remembers hearing someone—some_thing_—whisper his name, coaxing him into the dark just below him. All he had to do was lean forward, just a little… 

_He’s not in love with you._

He doesn’t remember stepping down from the ledge. He doesn’t remember what made him step back. But he remembers the _exhaustion_ that drowned him in its wave. He let out a deep, heavy breath and he watched the world freeze in front of him. He’d never been so close to death. And just a day or two before he’d never been so close to living, to feeling alive.

_He’s not in love with you._

Robbe clasps his hands together, each holding, cradling the other. It feels a bit like when Sander would hold his hand. His hands miss Sander’s. They miss how they fit perfectly, how they felt safe there. They want to be held by Sander’s hands again. But they’re so desperate to just be _held _that they cling to each other like a lifeline. His hands squeeze against each other, his knuckles poking through his paling skin. It hurts, it pinches. Robbe pulls them apart, weaving his fingers through his hair.

He misses playing with Sander’s hair. How soft it was, how each strand was long enough to curl a bit around his finger— 

“Robbe, are you coming?” Milan’s voice snakes in through the door. “They’re getting cold.”

“I’m not hungry,” he replies, his voice broken beyond repair. He bites his lip, holds his breath, hoping Milan couldn’t hear him crying.

Milan’s shadow straightens. “You can always reheat them in the microwave.”

Robbe hears Milan’s footsteps recede, and his body begins to crumble. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, bowing his head. His fingers find their way back in his hair, more memories flooding in.

Sander. His hair, his smile, his eyes, his ears, his nose, his shoulders, his chest, his arms, his hands, his fingers, his hips, his legs, his toes, his heart, his tongue, his mind, his soul, his music, his art, his photographs, his touches, his hugs, his kisses… his _everything_.

_He’s not in love with you._

But Robbe was in love with him. Robbe _is_ in love with him. The love hasn’t stopped, hasn’t faded away. And Robbe is afraid it never will. Years from now, Sander and Britt will probably be married and have a family and Robbe will still be in love with him, unable to move on. He’s afraid he’ll still feel the aftershocks, still taste Sander somewhere on the tip of his tongue, still poisoned and sick by him.

_Chernobyl,_ Robbe remembers. _It’s Chernobyl all over again._

Trees still can’t quite grow there. Radiation still lingers in the rivers, in the groundwater, in plants and animals. Scientists keep saying people can’t go back and live there because it’s still dangerous. People are still dying of cancers they developed from the fallout. They can’t agree on how many people died, either. Whether it was during the explosion, or the day after, or a few months later, or years later. A disaster. A tragedy.

Robbe let Chernobyl happen again.

_I let him go._

Is Sander going through Chernobyl now, too? Does he feel like everything’s exploded and he’s the only one who can put out the fires, evacuate the men, women and children, tend to the sick and wounded? Or maybe, for him, no one survived. He watches helplessly as what remains of his world turns to ash and is carried away by the wind. Does he wonder how Robbe is feeling, too? Is he worried about him, too?

_He’s not in love with you. _

_But can’t he care about me?_ Robbe thinks. _Can’t he be worried about me?_

He wants to get his phone and text Sander again. Call him. FaceTime him. Send him a message in a bottle or with a carrier pigeon. _Anything_. He needs to know that at least Sander cares, wonders if he’s okay. He _needs_ to know. He needs to hear Sander’s voice. He needs Sander to get better, to be okay. 

_He’s not in love with you_.

Robbe shuts his eyes, trying to block everything out. But all he sees, all he hears are explosions.

Robbe thinks, _Chernobyl is happening again and it’s all my fault._

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr! (@kardamommegf)
> 
> thank you so much for reading! if you'd like leave a kudos or a comment! i hope you have a lovely day/night!!


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